I'm Making You My Special Project
by rebelrsr
Summary: Alex meets Lucy Lane and discovers how deeply she regrets her life choices.


"You have two minutes to get off my bus!" The drill instructor shouted. His voice was hoarse. Indistinct with volume.

It was enough to get all of the people crammed into the official Army school bus up and out of their seats.

All except Alex. She stayed seated. Her head pounded, and her stomach rolled uneasily. Bile burned the back of her throat. This was such a fucking joke. Why hadn't she fought harder when Hank visited her in the drunk tank? Getting kicked out of her grad program and charged with public intoxication had to be better than…this.

"Get up!" Alex's seatmate shoved at her. "What's your problem? We're the last people on the bus, and I'm damned sure our two minutes are gone!"

"It doesn't matter." Nonetheless, Alex stood and grabbed her official Army backpack in her right hand. The manila folder with her orders and other paperwork were in her left, like the good soldier she'd never wanted to be.

The other woman – Lucy? – didn't wait for Alex to explain why getting off the bus and getting all lined up with the other female recruits wasn't a priority. Lucy grabbed _her _gear and ran down the aisle.

Alex followed much more slowly.

Stepping off the bus was like descending into hell. Sound overwhelmed her. Voices clashed and echoed around the sunlit parking lot. People, most of them in the easily recognizable Smokey Bear hats, stalked around groups of recruits.

The sheer intensity of the moment slammed into her. The hairs on her arms and at the back of her neck rose in response. Her heart thundered (almost as much as the men with hammers in her skull).

Before she could make sense of the insanity, one of the drill instructors invaded Alex's personal space. "Are you deaf, recruit? What did I tell you to do?"

Alex stepped back automatically.

"On the ground! On the ground now!" the instructor bellowed. "Why are you still standing? I said. On. The. Ground."

Gear and paperwork hit the ground as Alex nearly threw herself onto the asphalt surface. The DI followed her down. She somehow noticed that his pushup position was vastly better than her own. In fact, her arms were already shaking, and her torso sagged toward the pavement.

"Can you hear me now, recruit?"

Disdain for the military faded as survival instinct kicked in. "Yes, Drill Instructor!"

"What? What did you say?" Alex's plan of sliding through boot camp, of washing out, of doing whatever it took to get kicked out and sent home crumbled under that roar.

Alex screamed back. "Yes, Drill Instructor!"

"Down!" The DI dropped so that his chest brushed the ground, and Alex dropped, too.

Flat onto the asphalt. Her arms were suddenly made of limp spaghetti. Her muscles had already deserting her and the Army. Fifty pushups later, Alex staggered to her feet. Lifting the backpack from the ground was worse than carrying a case of beer from her car and up the six flights of stairs to her dorm room.

Even the manila envelope of paperwork (once again correctly held in her left hand), caused tremors in her muscles from fingertips to biceps. None of that mattered. Running as if her life depended on it, Alex joined the rest of the women from the bus. Her arrival caused muttering and a lot of rearranging. Her height meant she was relegated to the back of the line on the outside row.

Panting, shaking, and sweating in the oppressive Oklahoma heat and humidity, Alex stared desperately at the back of the woman in front of her. She raised her left arm, mimicking the rest of the women in line.

Not one of them moved. Three rows of terrified women.

Then a new voice cut through the shouted questions and insults, the bellowed "Yes, Drill Instructor" and "No, Drill Instructor" around them. "Look who finally joined us."

Alex flushed. She'd been the last to get into place, and she hated being put on the spot.

"Put your arms down! Drop! On the ground! Everyone on the ground!" the woman snapped.

Bags, manila folders, and ten bodies hit the ground in a wild scramble. Every one of them with outstretched arms and bodies in various stages of "sag". This was no group of fit military might. More like a rag tag band of future soccer moms and video gamers.

"My name is Drill Instructor Lane! For the next nine weeks, you belong to me. You will respond to any question with three words: 'Yes, Drill Instructor' or 'No, Drill Instructor.' Do you understand?"

"Yes, Drill Instructor." Alex's voice cracked from the intensity of her response, even as it was swallowed by the same three-word shout from the other women.

"Give a warm welcome to Recruit Danvers, ladies." Alex glimpsed the ID's shiny black Oxfords. They stopped next to her. "She's the reason you're in this position right now. Recruit Danvers doesn't think it's important to follow orders. This is the Army, recruits. You are no longer a person. You are part of a squad. If one of you makes a mistake, the squad will pay for it."

Mother_fucker_. Even with her eyes glued to the asphalt below, Alex felt the side-eyed glares from her nine new best friends. Her squad. The team she'd fucked over because…because Alex made shitty life choices.

"I want to see twenty of the prettiest pushups on the planet, recruits. On my command, you'll touch the ground and resume your current position. The Position of Think. And each time you Think, you'll count and say: 'Thank you, Recruit Danvers!'"

Anger made Alex shake more than her tired arms.

"Down!"

Alex was a half-beat behind the rest of her squad in lowering to the ground and returning to the upright position. She refused to join in the shouted, "One, thank you, Recruit Danvers!"

Before they did another pushup, Alex heard DI Lane growl, "You've got an attitude problem, Recruit Danvers. I don't allow problems in my squad. _My _squad is an example of perfection from the moment they step off the bus. They do _not _believe the Army 'doesn't matter'. They do _not _fail to follow orders. And that's why I'm making you my special project, recruit. Down!"

Nineteen more times, Alex listened to her squad thank her for their punishment. With each repetition, she heard the anger in nine voices.

"Up! On your feet!" DI Lane was up before Alex's mind registered the command.

Other squads were moving out of the reception area. Ragged, out of sync voices, replicating the deep voice of a DI. "Oh Oh Oh, no! I gotta leave, I gotta go!"

"When I say, 'Forward, march!' you're going to start marching. Left foot first. In case you don't understand, or you don't care, Recruit Danvers, that means you walk in time with the rest of your squad! You don't stay behind and work on your beauty sleep. You got that, Recruit Danvers?"

After less than an hour of Army life, Alex hated DI Lane. She regretted every glass of whiskey, vodka, or bourbon she'd ever imbibed. "Yes, Drill Instructor!" A mental nine-week countdown began in time to the sound of DI Lane's marching cadence.


End file.
